


Anniversary Dinner

by EvilFuzzy9



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: Basting, Cannibalism, Dolcett - Freeform, F/F, F/M, Ginny is Kinky, Glazing, Hermione is Sneaky, Implied Mind Break, Kreacher Doesn't Give a Damn, Masochism, Roasted Alive, Situational Yuri, Stuffing, Suggested Snuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-02
Updated: 2016-02-02
Packaged: 2018-05-17 21:08:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5885221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvilFuzzy9/pseuds/EvilFuzzy9
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hermione and Ginny prepare a very special meal for their anniversaries.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anniversary Dinner

It was difficult to say where they had gotten the motivation to go through with it. Perhaps it was those special cooking articles in Witch Weekly, or the erotic novels in Hermione's private study. It could have been that it came out of nowhere, breathed into their minds by the air itself, truly and literally spontaneous.  
  
Whatever the case, it took root quickly. Their anniversaries were coming up, and they had arranged for a private dinner between the four of them. Ron had jokingly made the suggestion in response to Hermione fussing over the details, and Harry had laughed, given his wife a rakish wink, and said that sounded delicious.   
  
It was clearly aught but a jest and tease, playful and flirtatious with no real substance or intent behind it. Yet Ginny's imagination was seized by it, enflamed by the look her husband had given her. Hermione's mind also clung to the farcical suggestion, and no other ideas could dislodge it.   
  
Ron and Harry had offered to cook the anniversary dinner, but their wives had turned them down. Not because the men weren't good cooks, mind. No, Harry was fairly well versed in the culinary arts from his time with the Dursleys, and Ron himself had learned quickly enough out of necessity in the few years he and Hermione had been wed.   
  
But it was a matter of pride for the girls. Hermione may not have been domestic by nature, but she was competitive enough and took fair umbrage at her mother-in-law's infrequent criticisms. Ginevra, for her part, was Molly Weasley's daughter and even more bullheaded than Hermione.  
  
So they had insisted on being the ones to prepare the dinner, Hermione obsessing over getting every detail perfect and Ginny refusing to be outdone by anyone. And with no other ideas forthcoming on what to make, they had not-so-reluctantly settled on the one suggestion to have stuck.  
  
"At this rate, I swear the only way you'll ever stop fussing is if you just get in the oven and roast yourself."  
  
It was a ridiculous idea, but incredibly tempting at the same time. Cannibalism was not officially taboo in the wizarding world, but it was hardly condoned either. It existed in a legal gray area of sorts, and if it happened at all most witches and wizards simply turned and looked the other way.  
  
Part of this probably owed to the existence of simple if obscure charms that made it possible to survive being cooked, and powerful healing spells and potions that could reverse almost any mundane afflictions short of death. It wasn't even dark magic—a usually ignored variant of the flame freezing charm could let flesh be burned and roasted without one actually dying, and there were many potions that could forestall death to almost preposterous degrees, assuming the threat of it came not from curses or magical maladies.   
  
The only discouraging factor for most people, and the one thing that really kept this from being an accepted or mainstream activity, was that there was no spell which could numb or prevent the pain of cooking and consumption without also scrambling or cancelling out the other preservative enchantments. So it would hurt just as badly as if one were being cooked and eaten for keeps—far worse, really, since there would be no relief to be found through unconsciousness or death.   
  
But that was exciting in its own way, Ginny had to admit, and judging by the flush in Hermione's cheeks as she slowly disrobed, the brunette seemed to think likewise. It certainly suggested arousal, the way Hermione's nipples stood erect in the air, the pair of them sequestered in the kitchen of Number 12 Grimmauld Place.   
  
"Is the oven heated?" Ginny inquired, idly casting her eyes over great vats of sauce and jars of spice. Flicking her wand, she levitated onto the counter a cast iron pan that was large enough to fit two adult witches side by side.   
  
Hermione gave a start. She was shivering despite the heat radiating from the great brick and iron monstrosity of an oven that they would be using, bluebell flames dancing merrily within. Her skin was red where it faced the oven, and her eyes met Ginny's with some slight delay.   
  
She nodded.  
  
"Oh, yes, more than enough," Hermione said a hair squeakily, looking over her shoulder at the flames visible through the slat in the oven door. She was blushing, and it seemed she was using this check of the oven as an excuse to distract herself from the act of tugging down her bloomers.   
  
Ginny silently appreciated the way the fabric hugged Hermione's posterior before creasing as the other woman yanked it, pulling her panties down and baring her nether regions. The garment was conservative, but not unsexy.   
  
For her part, Ginny had worn her robes in the old fashion for today—that is to say, with nothing on underneath them. All she'd had to do was untie her robes and let them drop, exposing innumerable freckles to the world at large... or at least the other occupant of the kitchen.   
  
Hermione looked a little abashed to spy Ginny's slender form, the lithe and limber build of a professional seeker. Her own waistline was somewhat noticeably less trim, the bookish Mrs Granger-Weasley being more on the pudgy side. She ate healthily enough and in reasonable portions, but with a desk job and the relatively sedentary pursuits of an lifelong bookworm, Hermione found that she couldn't entirely avoid the formation of slight love handles.  
  
Yet Ginny was for her part envious of Hermione's figure all the same. Even if she was not exceptionally voluptuous, the brunette still had undeniable curves, with a bust that was larger than not and an arse that could be appropriately called booty in the most American sense of the word. Ginny stared jealously, but also appreciatively, counting the dimples in Hermione's cutely quivering buttocks as the woman swished her wand and banished her clothes to the corner of the room.   
  
With a face as red as a beet, Hermione turned to face her.  
  
"I assume you have the charms down," she said.   
  
Ginny rolled her eyes.  
  
"Yes, and I drank the potions," she said. "They tasted awful."  
  
"Good, good..." Hermione said happily. She nodded and shifted her body, turning to point her wand at a brush. It animated and hopped into one of one of the vats, swirling itself around and getting a good coating of sauce ready.  
  
Ginny was more interested in the movement's of Hermione's breasts, the other witch's sizable melons swaying and rippling subtly in response to the motion of her arms. Her eyes drank in the sight, flitting over the creamy flesh glistening with beads of sweat while puffy nipples stood up tall and proud. Plump and delectable globes of flesh, Hermione's breasts were ample and round. Not the biggest tits Ginny had seen—Lavender Brown and Hannah Abbot both came to mind as still larger and juicier specimens—but they were a respectable ways up the list.  
  
Mrs Potter licked her lips, unashamedly sizing Hermione up. Her sister-in-law looked like she would roast beautifully, and already Ginny could envision Ron and Harry carving slices out of those fatty breasts, those meaty thighs, that round and bouncy ass. She hoped they would save a share for her, because this witch looked bloody delicious.   
  
Now more than ever, Ginny found herself feeling appreciative of her brother's tastes.  
  
Perhaps something of these thoughts showed in her hungrily gleaming eyes, because Hermione coughed and pointed her wand at Ginny's ankles. The redhead felt her world turn upside down as she was hoisted into the air with a levicorpus, dangling by her ankles as if held by invisible hands. The blood rushed to her brain, and her head swam for a moment or two.  
  
Ginny grinned crookedly at Hermione, and she raised her own wand in response to point at the stone counter. Sparks burst from the tip, and a moment later there was a clatter as the drawer beneath burst open to let cutlery fly up. Another flick, and she had summoned a cutting board and charmed a number of vegetables to hop onto it.   
  
The knives went to work in a flurry of gleaming steel, steadily clicking and clacking as they began chopping up the non-human ingredients.  
  
Hermione looked mildly impressed by this handy bit of wandwork. She was great with textbook spells obscure and common, but domestic magic was not her greatest strong point—that was one of the few areas where her husband could regularly outdo her, ever since he'd swallowed his pride and asked his mum to teach him. Molly saw it as a point of pride, no doubt, and Ginny was her mother's daughter in spite of everything.  
  
"Do you plan on basting me, then, or are you going to admire the view a little while longer?" Ginny said, interrupting Hermione's thoughts.  
  
Hermione gave a start and blushed, realizing that she had indeed been goggling at Ginny's nude form. The other girl was so slim and shapely, with breasts that were nice and perky and perfectly proportionate to her body. Her sex was also an entrancing sight, not least of which because of how smooth and hairless it was, impeccably shaven with regular pubic hair banishing charms.   
  
"Sorry," Hermione said distractedly. "I'll get right on that."  
  
"Don't apologize! I appreciate the attention~" Ginny said teasingly, smiling upside down Mrs Granger-Weasley.  
  
Hermione nodded but did not retract the apology. She stepped forward and tapped her wand in her hand; a mildly viscous fluid that smelled somewhat of honey and lemons flowed from the tip and over her palm. Cutting off the flow with another tap, Hermione then pointed her wand once more at Ginny and summoned the girl closer.   
  
Ginny floated right up to Hermione, her pussy at eye level. She smiled coyly at her sister-in-law and managed to wiggle her hips a bit.  
  
"Slather me up," she purred, feeling very excited to begin. "Get it nice and thick all over me."  
  
Hermione fought a blush at Ginny's sultry tone and playful posturing. Determinedly clearing her throat, she raised her hand and placed it on the small of Ginny's left knee. She felt the skin jump and pimple under her touch, and the touch of the cool sauce.  
  
Slowly, she began to rub up and down the back of Ginny's leg. She squeezed and kneaded firm thighs and taut muscles, digging her fingers exploratively into pale, freckled skin. It was somehow very exhilarating to do this, and Hermione felt a warm, tingling knot form low in her belly.  
  
Her lips went dry as she groped Ginny's calves and ankles, her heel and the ball of her foot. The soles were smooth and tender, raw from a thorough pedicure the night before. Hermione fondled Ginny's toes, pinching them gently between her fingers, working the sauce in well and thick between her digits.   
  
Ginny moaned enthusiastically in response to Hermione's ministrations. In one way it was a bothersome distraction, yet in another way it was all too welcome. It thrilled Hermione to hear the other woman make such suggestive noises, and she reveled slightly in the sounds.   
  
Ginny was like her brother in the way she moaned, though her voice was less deep than his. But she said similar things in response to Hermione's touch, praising and goading her with very familiar language. Perhaps they had learned from the same sources, Hermione mused, from handed-down porn magazines, or whispered talk and jest between siblings.  
  
She caressed Ginny's thighs, feeling how taut and firm they were. Ginny was in very good shape, an athletically built woman who put serious work into her physical regimen. Hermione had to admit that she partly dragged out working the sauce into Ginny's skin out of sheer appreciation of her fitness, and perverse enjoyment of how that body felt in her hands.  
  
But she ran her fingers over Ginny's legs either way, basting them front to back and side to side. And when she was done there, she moved further down, gripping pert buttocks in hand and squeezing them tightly. She rolled Ginny's round cheeks in the palms of her hands, kneading them like dough. She was especially thorough in her fondling—her basting—of the redhead's fine arse.  
  
Then she ran her hands up and down Ginny's hips, following a generous curve most unlike anything the redhead's brothers had. Slender as she otherwise was, Ginny had the Prewett hips for sure, and she blushed and squirmed much more abashedly now as Hermione explored them. Panting huskily, her cheeks flushing an even more vibrant red than her hair, Ginny writhed and groaned as Hermione worked around to her front.   
  
Hermione skimmed over Ginny's pussy. She rubbed it, certainly, but now she was once more the shyer one. Ginny whined disappointedly and bucked her hips, pouting at the lack of stimulation. She silently begged Hermione to stick those marvelous fingers in her cunt, looking up at her with a heatedly imploring stare. Fixedly Hermionely avoided this gaze, staring at Ginny's toes.  
  
And so she continued, rubbing Ginny's body all over. Halfway through she charmed the basting brush to start working on the parts she had not yet covered, but aside from that it was in much the same manner as the start that Hermione finished the last bits of the first stage of Ginny's preparation.  
  
At last, she stepped back to appreciate the view of Ginny's slick and glistening form. The girl looked exceedingly moist and very delectable already; her pussy was soaking wet, hot and puffy with the clit engorged, and her nipples were stiff on rising, falling, swelling breasts. Hermione felt rather turned on herself, looking at Ginny like this. The girl was a fine, lean cut of meat.  
  
She licked her lips, and with a swish of her wand floated Ginny over to the table, upon which rested the great iron pan. Then she set her wand down and climbed onto the pan beside the redhead, laying her back on the cool metal. There was ample room for both of them, and as Ginny moved into a kneeling position beside her, Hermione could not help but fantasize about how their husbands might enjoy this meal.  
  
Ginny seemed to have similar thoughts on her mind, judging from the way she swayed her hips and spread her legs to straddle Hermione's waist. She bent low and pressed a kiss to Hermione's brow, charming the brush which had finished with her to start work on the brunette's nether regions. Hermione squirmed and yelped delightfully at the sensation of coarse bristles tickling her sex.  
  
Roughly, Ginny grabbed her sister-in-law's tits and poured a generous dollop of sauce over them. She looked intently into Hermione's eyes as she began spreading the sauce over her chest, sliding her palms this way and that over the woman's ample bust. She pressed firmly, watching the doughy flesh yield at her touch, the creamy globes rolling and squishing with her ravenous ministrations.  
  
She luxuriated in the feeling of Hermione's tits, savoring the way her breasts quivered and mashed as she rubbed and squeezed them. She stroked the outer sides, pressing the mounds together and emphasizing the witch's enviable cleavage, causing Hermione to blush and avert her gaze, weakly panting. She cupped them from below, working her hands up and down to make the breasts rise and fall.  
  
She spread the breasts, making sure to get enough sauce between them, and letting them slap back together coated the nipples with excessive focus, rubbing and pinching and tugging them cruelly. Hermione whined and whimpered at this sensual abuse, craning her neck and gasping breathlessly. Ginny felt the brunette shiver and tense in her hands, then go slack, redfaced and sweaty. A generous bosom heaved with labored breaths.  
  
The brush moved at last from Hermione's privates, where the sauce was now intermingled and washed about with a generous dousing of womanly nectar.  
  
Smiling amusedly, Ginny rubbed her hands down Hermione's arms, coating the slightly brown limbs. She lingered briefly at the underarm, the ticklish pits smooth and soft, charmed hairless by Ginny's own hand. Hermione, though slack and numb from orgasm only moments earlier, had enough sense and volition remaining in her body to squirm and giggle reflexively.  
  
Ginny watched Hermione's shining, glossy bosom rock and ripple with the convulsions of her diaphragm, her nervous laughter. She smiled and ran her hands down Hermione's sides, laving the sauce over softly quivering flesh. Hermione was ticklish here as well, and she took a little more enjoyment in watching the woman writhe and breathlessly squeal. It was a lovely, emboldening sight.  
  
Smiling lustily, she continued. Top to bottom she basted Hermione, working quickly between the charmed brush and her hands. When the front was finished, she rolled her over. Aside from giving Hermione's ass an especially thorough coat, as well as a few teasing smacks, she went swiftly, almost hurriedly, clearly eager to get onto the next phase.   
  
Finally, when they were both completely basted, Ginny let herself flop down in the tray beside Hermione.   
  
"This will be fun," she said, panting slightly. It was getting warm in the kitchen, the enchanted flames in the oven roaring mightily. Her eyes gleamed as she glanced over at the bowl of stuffing.   
  
"We'll need Kreacher after this," Hermione said, looking for her part rather intimidated by the thought of what was now to come. She bit her lip. "We'll have to leave our wands aside when we go in the oven, of course."  
  
Ginny nodded and pointed her wand at the bowl of stuffing, breadcrumbs and spices mixed together. She summoned it to the foot of the pan and spread her legs. Meeting Hermione's eyes and seeing the apprehension forming therein, she grinned and twirled her wand.  
  
A clod of breadcrumbs floated out of the bowl and zoomed up between Ginny's legs. Looking straight into Hermione's eyes, a comforting look that told her it would be just fine, Ginny pinched her labia apart and held her breath for a short moment. The stuffing shoved itself into her pussy, darkening as it went moist from her juices.   
  
She moaned, feeling it push inside of her, the stuffing compressed to a degree of solidity deliciously reminiscent of her husband's manhood. Hermione watched with reddening cheeks, terribly abashed.   
  
"It's not bad, dear," Ginny said in a soothing voice. "Mm... it feels very good, actually."  
  
The redhead grinned, twitching and bucking her hips. She grunted huskily and charmed another handful's worth of crumbs and spice up her cunt. Her bosom heaved, modest and delectable. A third clump zoomed between her legs, and it buried itself with a little more difficulty. Ginny winced, now, but her eyes showed enjoyment still, and despite the glimmer of tears she summoned yet another handful.  
  
Hermione saw that it was quickly and progressively becoming more and more snug of a fit. Ginny was panting and shivering as clod after clod of stuffing was magically pushed up into her sex. It had to be very uncomfortable past a certain point, with how her belly was starting to expand. She was pushing the stuffing physically up her pussy, all the way in, past her cervix and into her womb.   
  
Ginny looked nearly pregnant with stuffing before she finally stopped. Her eyes were glassy and drool was trickling down her chin. Her breathing was visibly labored, her face as red as a beet under the glossy sheen of marinade. Legs twitched and spasmed, splayed apart and scarcely able to come back together, her cunt was so full. Her wand dropped limply from her hand, the redhead barely able to keep her fingers closed as paroxysms of mingled pain and pleasure shot through her body.  
  
With a whimper, Hermione grabbed her own wand and pressed its tip between her labia. She hissed, feeling the well polished wood push and prod her insides, shifting this way and that through her silky folds as she adjusted its aim. Slowly, tentatively, she pushed the wand up through her pussy. Long but slender, the object had little difficulty getting all the way inside.   
  
When she reckoned the tip to have entered her womb, Hermione took a deep breath and focused. Muttering an incantation, she watched the rest of the stuffing in the bowl start to disappear. She felt a pressure begin to swiftly grow in her gut.   
  
Bypassing the entrance entirely, Hermione spelled the stuffing directly into her womb.  
  
Her world turned on its head and her breath hitched painfully. Eyes rolling madly in her sockets, Hermione bit her lip and restrained an agonized squeal. It was excruciating in a way, how swiftly she was forcing herself to fill up. She felt like her insides would rip at the seams and spill out everywhere, watching her abdomen curve up and swell.   
  
With her breathing rapid and shallow, her grip on consciousness growing faint at points as the process neared its completion, a deeply buried part of Hermione's psyche reveled in this experience. It was not conventionally pleasurable by any means, her pussy receiving little stimulation from the skinny wand, but in a masochistic sort of way doing this truly did thrill her.  
  
The bowl of stuffing emptied, and Hermione's womb ceased its agonizing expansion. She felt beyond full. Her head was spinning, and her lungs could hardly give her enough air as she spasmodically gulped it down. Her insides ached magnificently, and she felt like she could hardly move.   
  
Weakly, she removed her wand from her pussy and set it down on the table. In shock from how quickly she had stuffed herself, perhaps, Hermione found it a very laborious effort to do even that much.   
  
In a dreamlike state, she heard Ginny give a hoarse moan of "Kreacher," eliciting a small, curiously distant-sounding POP.   
  
"Ahh, mistresses are ready to cook, then?" the house elf said croakily, appearing as soon as he was summoned. "Good, very good. The masters will be sure to enjoy this."  
  
Ginny purred and arched her back, absently grasping one of her breasts and no doubt thinking of her husband. Hermione also felt quite excited at the reminder of why they were doing this. With a sigh, she did the best she could to relax, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. Her stuffed insides were starting to hurt less blatantly. Now it was merely a vague sort of discomfort that she felt.   
  
It was numb, almost. The two of them barely even noticed Kreacher pushing two large, matching carrots up their cunts, basking as they in the masochistic afterglow of stuffing themselves to the utter brink of endurance.   
  
The pan lurched beneath them, then, and Hermione imagined that she was soaring away on a bed of clouds as she and Ginny were levitated over to the oven. A metallic creak and a blast of heat marked the door opening, and it was so intense that it felt like her hair was being seared right off her head. This was not actually the case, of course, but the heat stabbed into her skin like daggers all the same.  
  
They were slid inside, and the flames roared all around them. The heat enveloped their bodies in a smothering embrace. Ginny spasmed beside Hermione, moaning blissfully as the oven door closed behind their feet. Side by side the two young women lay, willfully helpless as they began to cook.  
  
The pan seared their undersides, yet it was scarcely any hotter than the air itself. Rippling and wavering with the intensity of the heat, wavering like a mirage all around them, it set their insides alight with an agonizing ferocity. Sweat boiled straight off of their skin, tears of mingled pain and ecstasy blossoming into steam on their cheeks.  
  
Ginny felt the agony anew with every breath, her lungs burning as surely as if they had been lit on fire from within. Her breasts ached, her pussy throbbing dully. Her arse burned like she was grinding her anus on a red hot poker, and her tongue felt like it was swelling inside her mouth, like it was expanding to take up the entire space behind her lips. Her nipples were puffy and erect, twinging with pain, and all over her body she felt every inch of skin screaming with the sublime torment.  
  
Hermione's breasts trembled gelatinously from her labored breathing, the woman's body looking exceptionally lewd inside the oven. Her lips were plump and going brown, crisping and drying out. She licked them numbly and shivered, perceiving wisps of steam rising from her cunt. Her arousal was boiling inside her, and her pussy might as well have been whistling like a tea kettle.  
  
They cooked in earnest, both of them, roasting inside the oven. Every second stretched out into a small eternity, the pain overwhelming them and consuming their minds. Had they been dipped in oil and hit with incendio, they hardly could have felt the heat more intimately, more intensely than they did right now. There was no reprieve from this torture, from the slow and excruciating hell of cooking alive.   
  
They would not have had it any other way.  
  
Ginny moaned despite herself. Her head felt foggy and muddled, and she drifted in and out of clarity. She did not lose consciousness, per se, but her awareness faltered then and again, her thoughts halting and meandering through a mire of burning sensations. She swam in a lake of molten rock, skinny dipping in lava and getting charred to a crisp in reward. She floated on a cloud of nuclear ash, flash seared from within and without.  
  
Fiendfyre devoured their nubile bodies in a merciless, infernal blaze. The hounds of hell pinned them down on burning coals and set to work ripping and tearing at their soft, plump bosoms. Bluebell flames danced merrily beneath them, licking the sides of their pan. Their muscles were weak, powerless from this scorching assault: they could not move, and they could hardly breathe.   
  
At some point, after what seemed like an age and a half of fire and brimstone in the deepest pits of tartarus, they felt their naked forms assaulted by a sudden blast of cool air. Again the pan lurched beneath them, levitating out of the oven.  
  
Hermione sleepily watched as Kreacher approached them with a brush in hand, the pan settling once more on the counter. The bristles were dripping with sauce.  
  
Kreacher paid the witches no mind as he went to work, quickly and efficiently basting them. He applied a second coat of sauce to Hermione's skin, which was well on its way to turning a delicious golden brown. A trail of liquid fat bubbled down the side of her breasts, her generous mammaries feeling especially bloated and corpulent beneath a seared, tightened layer of skin.  
  
Hermione moaned weakly, feeling a thrill of pleasure as cool bristles swept over her nipples. The fleshy nubs were darkly brown and fairly hard, swollen and leaking a hot, greasy fluid. Her skin burned worse at the brush than it did at the grease, more starkly contrasting with the cool sauce than the molten, lipid leakage of her roasted tits.  
  
Ginny would have squirmed if her muscles still had the strength to act by any conscious volition, when Kreacher snapped his fingers and caused her to roll over onto her side as if hit by a flipendo. Her back burned horribly at the encroachment of room temperature air against her naked skin, and she groaned pitifully as another brush slipped deftly over her round, pert buttocks.   
  
Arse cheeks hurting a thousand times worse than any amount of spanking could cause, Ginny dimly fantasized about her lean human ham being carved into thin slices and portioned out onto her husband's plate. She thought about how Harry might savor the cuts of her rump, sawing her meat into manageable pieces and chewing, chewing, CHEWING on it all while she watched, helpless on a platter, nothing but a tasty roast for their anniversary.   
  
Kreacher once more levitated the pan into the oven, dispassionately listening as the mistresses moaned and whispered the masters' names. He shut the oven door behind Ginny and Hermione, then set once more to work on the other dishes.   
  
Mrs Potter and Mrs Granger-Weasley roasted for another thirty minutes, enduring another half an hour in the oven's fiery belly. When that time was up, he took them out and basted them again. They barely met his eyes, still alive but in possession of precious few lingering faculties.   
  
If they came out of this with their minds intact, it would be a marvel. If mistresses Potter and Granger-Weasley weren't completely broken by the pain of cooking before it was over, reduced by agony as terrible as the Cruciatus Curse to senseless, mewling hunks of meat, then Kreacher would eat his tea cozy.   
  
It was funny that they would choose to do this at all. If Kreacher didn't know any better, he would think the mistresses had not done all of their research into the riskes. But that was preposterous. Mistress Granger-Weasley was much too studious to have overlooked the notes and warnings, and too cautious by half to thoughtlessly disregard them.   
  
Whether or not she had elected to inform Mistress Potter of these dangers, however...  
  
...well, it was not Kreacher's place to question the affairs of the masters and mistresses. All he needed to do was finish preparing the meal and bring it out when it was done. And if the mistresses were still fit to be called witches after it was over, then all the better for them.   
  
But it was very unlikely that they would be mentally fit for anything but cooking and eating ever again.


End file.
